Always the One: (Meadowview Heroes # 2) (The Meadowview Series Book 6) (Meadowview Heat)

by Rochelle French

  He put the Jeep in Park, turned the vehicle off, and pulled the key out of the ignition. Silence met his statement. Thank god he’d been able to remotely turn off his house alarm. But Coraleen wasn’t answering him.

  He turned to her and added, “You know I’ll sound like a total and complete idiot, right?”

  For a moment she remained quiet. The suddenly she squealed. A happy squeal.

  “You’re going to keep her!” she exclaimed.

  Why would she think that? He’d been clear he wasn’t taking the cat, right? “No, I’m not. I just meant if—”

  “You put all those verbs in future tense. And you said ‘my cat.’ You’re keeping Hot Tub!”

  He looked at her and noted the gigantic grin on her face. Something hard and brittle inside him cracked, then softened, rough edges expanding, crumbling. He let out a sigh and allowed the stiffness to leave his spine.

  Leaning back against the driver’s seat, he rolled his head to give Coraleen a half-grin. “I guess I have a cat,” he admitted.

  And then found himself suddenly attacked by a muddy woman dressed in a towel and smooshing a kitten between them as she peppered kisses on his cheeks, punctuating the last one with a breathless, “She’s a kitten, but thank you!”

  When she jumped from the Jeep with more energy than a concussed woman should have and scampered to the house, he let out the huge breath of air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding…and willed his body to stop its instantaneous response to the fact that he’d had Coraleen Pettigrew’s lips pressed to his skin.

  God, he wanted that woman now more than ever.

  The night passed slowly for Remy. Every three hours the alarm’s shriek wrenched him from sleep. Every three hours he’d stumble down the hall, sit on the bed, and gently shake Coraleen’s shoulder until she opened her eyes. Every three hours his heart would twist and turn and race forward headed for what he knew was sure disaster at the soft way his name escaped her mouth, the silken way her hair slid from her forehead, the subtle scent emanating from her bare skin.

  Every three hours he was a wreck.

  And the rest of the night wasn’t all that peaceful, either. Hot Tub had devoured a can of tuna like nobody’s business, slept curled up next to him on the couch, then woke up ready to attack shadows, socks, and the dire threat of her own tail. Around three in the morning, between the pounding thud of kitten paws smacking the hardwood floor in the hall (and in the kitchen, and in the great room, and in the bathroom—how could something that tiny make that much noise?) and the way his body flipped the “on” switch to lust every time Coraleen’s image crossed his mind (did his mind really need to go there all night long?), any desire to sleep had run off like a kid after an ice cream truck.

  Thoughts swarmed his mind, bumblebees heavy with pollen, plodding but incessant and and not to be ignored. Jacob sleeping in the cemetery, his father on a bender.

  He’d kissed Coraleen.

  Lydell ramping up his campaign, Reinhardt warning him off the recently returned former convict.

  He’d kissed Coraleen.

  Where the hell her horse had ended up and how on earth he could find Visada and return the horse to his rightful owner.

  He’d kissed Coraleen.

  What on earth he was gonna do with a cat, well, actually, a kitten.

  He’d kissed Coraleen.

  And that was the biggest headache of them all. Because he’d gone and kissed Coraleen and now there was no question he wanted her (but really, had there ever been?). That Coraleen would move on again was the thought that had plunged in its stinger.

  Because that was her plan—find her horse and get the hell out of Dodge. Well, out of Meadowview. And leave him with the taste of dust and burned rubber on his tongue as she hit the gas pedal, hard. He’d watched her leave town before, had been torn up inside as the woman—the only one he’d ever wanted with every fiber of his body—gave him a half-smile from the back of the transport van and his soul echoed the thought, did she really do it?

  He finally gave up sleeping, put on a pot of coffee, and waited out the night.

  Not much else to do.

  Coraleen may have been nudged into consciousness numerous times throughout the night but had no problem falling back asleep each time Remy left her room. Concussions did that to a being, she figured, groaning and putting a hand over her eyes to ward off the pale stream of morning light falling across the bed.

  But wow—those moments when the fog cleared and Remy’s face came into view and she grew aware of his warm, solid hand on her shoulder…those moments had been a bit of heaven.

  A heaven she’d better stay away from. In Meadowview, she’d never be anything but a former convict. And he’d never be anything but a lawman.

  She sat straight up in bed and petted a purring Hot Tub. At least her head no longer ached with each move she made. Just her heart, when she thought of Remy.

  “Coraleen Pettigrew, convicted felon and persona non grata in Meadowview,” she said to the kitten, holding her high, “well, except among a select few—some of which are animals, and I appreciate you for that greatly, Hot Tub. Truth is, though, I’m not exactly someone Remy would be putting on his dance card at the Fireman’s Ball come winter.”

  The kitten meowed, high and lilting, as if asking a question.

  Coraleen laughed. “Yep, no such thing anymore as a dance card, but you get my drift.”

  Hot Tub resumed her purring and Coraleen glanced around the room, noticing the frost that bit around the edges of the guest room windows.

  Her heart swelled up as she realized Remy had indeed saved Jacob from what ended up being a very cold night. She’d have to apologize for going off on him the way she had the night before and thank him for taking care of the kid. A soft purr caught her attention, and she smiled. She’d thank Remy, too, for agreeing to adopt Hot Tub. And for taking care of her.

  She’d bug him for a ride into town and go about looking for a place to stay until the repairs on the Impala were completed as she asked around about Visada. Surely someone in the community knew who’d bought her horse.

  She scritched under the kitty’s chin, then noticed a pair of jeans, a stylish white button-down, and a UC Davis hoodie on the easy chair in the corner of the room. She stood and padded over to inspect the clothing, quickly realizing they were all her size. He’d mentioned his cousin Susan had left a few things at his place a while back—these must have been her clothes. How sweet.

  Yep, thank you’s were definitely in order.

  An hour later, the time made tense by the way Remy went out of his way to avoid touching her as they worked together to make breakfast (it’s not like she could just let the bacon burn—hello, it was bacon!), and with Hot Tub fed and sleeping off her latest tuna binge, she stood in Remy’s kitchen and watched as he inadequately tidied up. The place wasn’t dirty, per se, just…really, really cluttered. Someone needed a very long trip to Ikea.

  “You sure you want to hang out in town?” Remy asked as he tried to put the fry pan away but knocked over a tippy stack of metal mixing bowls, sending them clanging to the tile floor and Hot Tub skittering for cover. “You’re supposed to still take it easy. Your headache may be gone, but you’re not healed all the way yet. My friend Mac Johns is out of town, and he said it would be fine if you stayed at his place until your car is fixed. I’d be happy to drive you over there.”

  Emotion clogged her throat at the mention of staying at his friend’s home. Yeah, sure, she’d practically ordered Remy to never kiss her again, but why hadn’t he at least offered to let her stay at his place for a few more days?

  Of course she would have refused, but it would have been nice to feel…what, wanted? Was her reaction to his statement more about Remy not wanting her or about her not having a place to belong?

  “No,” she said sharply. When he drew his face into a frown, she softened her tone and added, “I’m going stir-crazy already—I need to get out. Move around a bit. I promise I
won’t do too much. But if you drop me off at Cuppa Joe, I can ask there about Visada. Then I can pop my head into a few other businesses on Market Street and see if anyone’s heard of where he went. Then I’ll go hang out with Delilah at the Goldpan Pub.”

  “Tell Delilah hi for me,” Remy said, distracted by trying to shove a pair of tongs into a crowded utensil drawer. Earlier in the morning, Delilah had texted Remy, asking him to give Coraleen a message to meet her at the Goldpan for lunch. He finally slammed the drawer shut.

  “And tell your friend thanks for the offer to use his place,” she added, “but I’ll figure something out.” Park bench, maybe?

  Remy opened his mouth as if to argue, but shut it and only nodded instead, then finished putting the dishes away in silence.

  Ten minutes later, after driving the five miles into town, he dropped her off at Cuppa Joe and gave her a tight smile and a wave.

  She watched as he drove off, wearing his tight, khaki uniform that fit him like butter, his belt with the gun holster and nightstick making him look sexier than any TV or movie hero.

  She really needed to stop checking him out.

  It took her all of five minutes to discover none of the patrons there knew who’d bought Visada. Two hours later, she’d entered every business within the town limits, asked the same questions, and come up with the same answer: people remembered the auction, but no one recalled who’d ended up with her horse. No one even remembered seeing Visada at the auction. She was getting nowhere.

  Her heart ached and her head hurt.

  Delilah met her promptly at noon at the Goldpan Pub. Walking into the place (barely recognizable with hammered tin on the ceiling and exposed brick where there’d been knotty pine paneling before—yep, times sure had changed), Coraleen felt tension flip up her spine as a few of the locals, people she’d known since childhood, glanced in her direction and then quickly looked away.

  She thrust her chin up high and swept her gaze around the large expanse, then froze.

  Allan Reinhardt sat at a back table with Ned Peardale, owner of Ned’s Signage & Copy Shop (and grandfather of the “CPR-practicing” Nectar Peardale) and Albert Bentsen, who ran the local office supply store. They may have been Pop’s friends once, but they were currently among the few people in the pub who were shunning her with intensity. Ned and Jim’s rigid backs practically radiated “pissed-off.” Reinhardt stared at her, an unfriendly and rather disingenuous smile on his face, his eyes hooded and sharp and boring into hers.

  She squared her shoulders and plastered a fake smile on her face. They thought they knew her. They didn’t, though, and that hurt. But she’d made her decision to keep those people from thinking poorly of her grandfather, and that’s the way she wanted to keep things—because he’d been innocent.

  When the embezzlement had been discovered, the investigation had immediately implicated Pop, since he was Lydell’s accountant, and the only one with access to the account.

  At first, none in Meadowview could believe that the kind and gentle Macer Pettigrew could steal, but over time, as the investigation and then trial continued, people started to assume his guilt. Pop had lost almost all his accounting clients. People would turn their backs when he went into Camden’s Grocery. Pop had taken to going to Dillard’s, across town (a nice enough place, sure, but it didn’t carry organic bananas), but even there he’d find sullen faces. Cold shoulders. Lots and lots of backs turned in his direction. Judgment for something he hadn’t done.

  And Coraleen’s heart had broken every time she noticed someone cross the street to avoid running into Pop, or every time she’d be at work as Pop’s assistant and she’d get a call from a client telling her they were canceling their contract. She’d watched the man she’d known as never being without a smile shrink and turn grey before her eyes. The two years following the accusation had almost destroyed Pop.

  She hated the prosecutors, who refused to look into the possibility someone else had those accounting codes. But not even Pop could figure out who might have stolen the money. Lydell certainly didn’t steal it himself—he’d never even had the convoluted set of codes himself.

  Pop had deserved to live the final years of his life in peace. With joy. Surrounded by friends and the community he’d given so much to. Coraleen had figured there was only one way to make sure that happened. Take the blame herself.

  She hadn’t counted on losing an entire five years of her life in the process, but in the end it had been worth it, even though his heart had broken when she’d taken the blame for the embezzlement.

  At least he’d forgiven her for lying to protect him. And at least when Pop had died, he’d been given a loving send-off by his beloved Meadowview. The sacrifice had been worth it.

  Chessie had videotaped Pop’s memorial service and showed it to Coraleen during her last visit to AZ/PC. Coraleen’s heart had swelled five times when she saw how many people had attended the service—a good half the town had crowded into Meadowview’s Community Center. People had cried and mourned the loss of a community fixture, a leader, a beloved member of the town. They’d celebrated his life, his accomplishments, his honored status.

  Yeah, Pop had remained one of Meadowview’s most cherished citizens even after his death. Coraleen had known Pop would have died in prison if he’d been convicted, but what had turned her heart into a twisted dishrag was how he would never know the loving embrace of Meadowview again. He’d loved the town almost as much as he’d loved her.

  With Pop gone, Meadowview was no longer her home. She couldn’t live in a town where she was an outcast. In a town where she had no more hope.

  Remy’d had no idea how close to home he’d hit when he’d spouted off that Nietzsche quote: Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of men. She’d held onto hope that Pop’s defense team would prove him innocent, but that hadn’t happened.

  Then, when she’d decided to confess and prove Pop innocent, she’d hoped that the law would do right by her—that a confession (even though it was a total and complete lie) would give her a shorter sentence.

  Hoped that her youth and the fact she’d never done anything wrong before would be a mitigating factor.

  Hoped that whomever had stolen the money would see what a gallant gesture she was making and would turn himself (or herself—she was no sexist when it came to criminals) in to the authorities.

  Hope? Nope.

  None of that had happened. Judge Reinhardt had instead thrown the book at her. Insisted she serve the full sentence—no early release. And then five years later, she’d been in the exercise yard, playing a game of kickball when Irma the guard had walked up, cupped her elbow gently, whispered in her ear, then helped her stand when her knees gave out.

  That was the day the last vestiges of hope that lived in her heart had died. And she didn’t want any hope back. Too painful.

  Coraleen gave up on trying to smile at the Goldpan’s patrons and just focused on Delilah. At least she was happy to see her.

  Over guacamole and jalapeño burgers (definitely not a thing five years before, Coraleen noted as her taste buds reacted with delight), Delilah and Coraleen discussed Coraleen’s options. Which weren’t many, but at least possibilities were opening up. Now that she didn’t need an overnight babysitter, she could stay anywhere.

  Coraleen figured she’d swallow her pride and put a call in to Chessie and ask if she could borrow her house while she was out of town. Juliet’s place would have worked perfectly if her friend hadn’t come up with such a lame “fumigation” story. Delilah offered to loan her money to pay for a room in one of the fancy hotels in town, but Coraleen turned it down—with only a thousand bucks in her pocket, paying $300 a night for what could be three to four more days wasn’t a price she could afford to pay, even at a loan.

  Coraleen was sucking noisily on her chocolate malt, studiously avoiding glancing over at Reinhardt and his pals, and about to ask Delilah to borrow her phone to call a friend, when Jul
iet surprised her by entering the pub.

  “You really need to get a cell phone,” she said to Coraleen after Coraleen and Delilah had greeted her. “I called Remy’s cell to let you know I was on my way back to Meadowview, but he must be out of range. Jeez, reception in Deloro County royally sucks. Sorry I ran off so quickly yesterday,” Juliet added, flashing Coraleen a grin.

  “Was that another cock and bull story about the horse rescue?” Coraleen said dryly.

  “No! I really did have to run off,” Juliet responded, adding a hint of chagrin to her smile. “One of my clients found a horse headed off to auction and what was going to be a pretty nasty fate. We managed to rescue the filly—she’s now safe at Sherman Wannamaker’s new boarding facility.”

  She started to slide into the booth next to Delilah, but the woman held her hand up.

  “You can have my seat, Juliet,” Delilah said, standing. “I need to go borrow Joe Schraeder’s oven. He’s letting me use Cuppa Joe’s kitchen each afternoon to bake up my muffins. Don’t know where I’d be without friends and neighbors like I have here in Meadowview.”

  A pang hit Coraleen’s chest, and she winced.

  Delilah obviously saw the pain in her expression. “Now you stop that, Coraleen. The diner will be fine. And so will you, now that you’re back where you belong.” She bent down and gave Coraleen a big hug, and for a moment Coraleen squeezed tighter, not wanting to let go.

  Didn’t matter that Delilah had mistaken the reason she’d winced (yes, she felt terrible about how the Impala had smashed Delilah’s business); the emotion that had churned her up just then had been more about how Delilah had a home. A community. A place where she belonged.

  And Coraleen didn’t.

  She finally let go of her friend, and Delilah gave her a wink before taking off, dreadlocks swaying in time to the indie music piped through the pub…a song about missed opportunities and second chances.

  The song’s words hit her hard, but she shoved the tense feeling aside—no time for self pity.